{"id":148921,"date":"2020-11-06T14:40:20","date_gmt":"2020-11-06T19:40:20","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=148921"},"modified":"2020-11-06T15:47:50","modified_gmt":"2020-11-06T20:47:50","slug":"staff-picks-people-places-and-poems","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/11\/06\/staff-picks-people-places-and-poems\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: People, Places, and Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"<div id=\"attachment_148928\" style=\"width: 1010px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/kevin_young_rt_color.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-148928\" class=\"size-full wp-image-148928\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/kevin_young_rt_color.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1000\" height=\"750\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/kevin_young_rt_color.jpg 1000w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/kevin_young_rt_color-300x225.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/kevin_young_rt_color-768x576.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><p id=\"caption-attachment-148928\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kevin Young. Photo: Melanie Dunea.<\/p><\/div>\n<p>The making of history is on everyone\u2019s mind this week. And while it\u2019s hard to look away from that history as it unfolds in real time on our screens, in Delaware and Washington and vote-counting centers around the country, I\u2019ve been glad to have at hand another kind of history, recently made: a new anthology of American poetry. <a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/1531\/9781598536669\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\"><em>African American Poetry: 250 Years of Struggle &amp; Song<\/em><\/a>, edited by Kevin Young, is a doorstop at north of a thousand pages, but with Library of America\u2019s signature bible-thin paper stock, this inspiring span of American poetics\u2014from Phillis Wheatley to Jamila Woods to Juneteenth of this year\u2014can somehow still fit comfortably in one\u2019s hand. Because I am a stubbornly linear person, my impulse is to start at the beginning and move steadily toward the end, and the thoughtful chronological delineations of <em>Struggle &amp; Song<\/em> encourage that impulse. But during weeks like this week, in years like this year, being able to enter this volume midstream and explore it in smaller sessions is a welcome thing. Particularly, I\u2019ve found myself reading the sixth section, Blue Light Sutras (1976\u20131989), and a group of poets whom Young describes as writing \u201cin personal ways about history and its many musics.\u201d Here are Rita Dove and Cornelius Eady, Yusef Komunyakaa and Nathaniel Mackey. And in the Mackey selection\u2014from \u201cSong of the Andoumboulou: 31\u201d\u2014I found a moment that felt like it could be speaking to <em>this<\/em> moment. There, Myth \u201cwondered where the we we\u2009\/\u2009were after would come\u2009\/\u2009from, awaited what rush\u2009\/\u2009we were told awaited\u2009\/\u2009us.\u201d <strong>\u2014Emily Nemens\u00a0<\/strong><!--more--><\/p>\n<p>Between refreshing all the same pages as everyone else I know, I read poetry\u2014single poems, often all my old favorites. I sift through the piles on my bedside table and the bookmarks on my phone for comfort. \u201c<em>I\u2019m too sad to read<\/em> says the daughter\u201d in Richard Siken\u2019s \u201c<a href=\"https:\/\/www.poetryfoundation.org\/harriet\/2006\/05\/journal-day-three-56d34c76c0505\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Journal, Day Three<\/a>,\u201d a poem about \u201cWeakness, Truth, Swearing, Precision, More Lies, and the Social Contract.\u201d Like with all Siken poems, in \u201cJournal, Day Three,\u201d every word is a revelation, and there always seems to be a world of bad outside, encroaching, and bad feelings inside that we try our hardest to suppress. What remains in the space between is a constant meditation on distance and detail, the central tension of all his work. \u201cJournal, Day Three\u201d is especially concerned with semiotics, a subject I can only really wrap my head around in poetry. Siken says we are \u201csurprisingly bigger and more vast than these words on the page,\u201d which reminds me of when Robert Hass, in \u201c<a href=\"https:\/\/www.poetryfoundation.org\/poems\/47553\/meditation-at-lagunitas\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Meditation at Lagunitas<\/a>,\u201d writes, \u201cThere are moments when the body is as numinous\u2009\/\u2009as words,\u201d and for a moment, I feel bigger than the maps on the screen, the slow percentages. For a moment, I remember I have a body, that I\u2019m not just a formless mass of stress dreams and sadness. The bad world and bad feelings become something precise, something tenable and tied together in \u201cconnections we had always felt but only now could see,\u201d like a poem. <strong>\u2014Langa Chinyoka<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<div id=\"attachment_148932\" style=\"width: 1010px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/ashleigh.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-148932\" class=\"size-full wp-image-148932\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/ashleigh.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1000\" height=\"750\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/ashleigh.jpg 1000w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/ashleigh-300x225.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/ashleigh-768x576.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><p id=\"caption-attachment-148932\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">Ashleigh Bryant Phillips. Photo: Missy Malouff.<\/p><\/div>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>Imagine you are on a trip through the Carolinas. Strangers at bus stations, breakfast counters, roadhouses all tell you stories, some long, some short, some lucid, some loony. This is the experience of reading Ashleigh Bryant Phillips\u2019s debut collection, <a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/1531\/9781938235665\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\"><em>Sleepovers<\/em><\/a>. Narrators confess, reminisce, and gossip with an openness and assumed absolution rarely found outside of nameless encounters. Phillips\u2019s way of swooping in and out of the lives of so many people (the table of contents clocks twenty-three stories, <a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/fiction\/7532\/an-unspoken-ashleigh-bryant-phillips\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">one of which<\/a> you can read in the Spring 2020 issue) is energetic: a man considers infidelity on his way home from a fishing trip; a sex worker imagines reincarnation as a deer; a young woman returns to her country home after moving away to a city. Humming under everything is a darkness, a violence, that the characters themselves cannot fully see, and often you want to pull the veil back further. But being at the mercy of a storyteller is the joy of listening to strangers while waiting for a bus\u2014and so it is here. <strong>\u2014Lauren Kane<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>This has been an exhausting week. Impulsively piping different news sources into each ear, I\u2019ve found myself with next to no energy for reading. One thing that has helped bring me out of this rapid-fire, anxious stupor is an Ilya Kaminsky poem that\u2019s been floating around social media: \u201c<a href=\"https:\/\/www.poetryfoundation.org\/poems\/91413\/we-lived-happily-during-the-war\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">We Lived Happily during the War<\/a>.\u201d It\u2019s not a happy poem; it\u2019s rather dour, actually. But it\u2019s a beautiful piece that demands better of this country, regardless of what happens. <strong>\u2014Carlos Zayas-Pons<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>I have been trying, for the past few days, to find some sort of shelter\u2014in <em>Middlemarch<\/em>, in music, in food\u2014and I can\u2019t imagine I am the only person for whom nothing has worked. Whatever happens in the near future, something is truly, terrifyingly broken in the United States, and while the degree of brokenness and who is in charge of repair efforts obviously matter, at this moment all comforts seem cold. And so I have ended up back with a writer who makes little attempt to offer comfort. In <a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/authors\/4303\/joan-didion\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Joan Didion<\/a>\u2019s work (the ability to focus or concentrate is long gone, so in between mental Electoral College math exercises, I have been picking up books at random and flipping through to find a sentence that will hold for a second) something is always broken, a person or a place or a system; her writing hems it in and controls it, watching without giving in to the chaos. But if you look closely, the language itself is stretched taut, one turn of the screw from shattering, and that is about how I feel right now. <strong>\u2014Hasan Altaf<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<div id=\"attachment_148929\" style=\"width: 1010px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/7051_joan_didion-1.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-148929\" class=\"size-full wp-image-148929\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/7051_joan_didion-1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1000\" height=\"750\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/7051_joan_didion-1.jpg 1000w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/7051_joan_didion-1-300x225.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/7051_joan_didion-1-768x576.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><p id=\"caption-attachment-148929\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">Joan Didion. Photo: Brigitte Lacombe.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 reads poetry, reads poetry, and reads poetry.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[438],"tags":[67827],"class_list":["post-148921","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-featured"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO Premium plugin v25.4 (Yoast SEO v25.4) - https:\/\/yoast.com\/wordpress\/plugins\/seo\/ -->\n<title>Staff Picks: People, Places, and Poems by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 reads poetry, reads poetry, and reads poetry.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, 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